Camilla Ch. 001

Camilla had had a crush on Mr. Grisham, her grade 12 English teacher, ever since she saw him walk into the classroom on the first day of the second semester. That he was about forty, and she'd just turned eighteen, didn't bother her at all: she'd always had a thing for older, distinguished, intelligent men. He was tall, blond-haired and blue-eyed; she found him devastatingly handsome, even though he had a slight gut. She had a burning curiosity bordering on obsession: to find out what he had hanging behind the zipper of his pants.

She could also sense that he lusted after her, not that she needed her impressively accurate intuition to tell her. During class time, when he had all the girls discussing a novel or poem in class (theirs was an all-girls Catholic school), he would walk about the groups ostensibly to make sure they weren't talking about anything else; but whenever he came by Camilla, he always felt this boldness, not at all knowing where he got his nerve from. He'd come into physical contact with her, tactfully enough to make it seem accidental. On one occasion, she felt his hands caress her thighs: it gave her a thrill of pleasure; she breathed heavily and closed her eyes; she then quickly pretended to sneeze so the other girls wouldn't suspect anything. Her panties absorbed some moisture, too.

However objectionable his desire for her may have been on moral grounds, he had every reason to want her from a visual standpoint: she was lovely. She had long, curly blonde hair, expressive blue eyes, a large, firm bust, and sinuous curves. She was a short, sexy little pixie in her schoolgirl uniform, her plaid miniskirt draped over a pair of buttocks that would make callipygian Venus envious. Though she had never viewed her own nether regions in a mirror, she had been reliably told by previous lovers that her vulva and anus were as delectable as her sensuous lips. These compliments encouraged her to become a lap-dancer at Luvlee's, the local strip-joint, as soon as she turned eighteen. She was also encouraged by these compliments to consider initiating some passion with Mr. Grisham.

'Considering' initiating that passion would soon swell into a determination to satisfy her curiosity about his trousers' inner secrets. Again, as with Mr. Grisham's boldness, she had no idea where she'd got hers from.

On the day that she finally made a move on him, she had been in a terrible fight with her mother. It was during lunchtime that her mother discovered Camilla had become a lap-dancer, and naturally her mother's reaction to this lurid news was one of shock and disapproval. At home, her conservative mother had shouted the most abusive language at her, and returning to school thirty minutes before afternoon classes were to start, Camila went into her English classroom in tears, tears to rival the downpour of rain outside.

Except for her and Mr. Grisham, no one was in the classroom. She locked the door so no one could get in and see what they were doing.

"Camilla, what's wrong?" he asked as she walked up to him and held him tight. He was just getting up from his chair when she forced him down by sitting on his lap, facing him. She put her face on his shoulder and sobbed.

"I had a fight with my mommy," she wept. "She was so mean to me. She said the meanest things."

"What did she say, sweetie?" he asked, embarrassed by his growing erection.

"I don't wanna talk about it. Just hold me, sir. Please. Hold me." She started rubbing her bra-less breasts against his chest.

"OK, baby. Please don't cry." He put his arms around her. The softness of her rubbing bosom was offset by the hardness of his phallus. She felt it poking out in a big bulge from his pants. The tip of it was massaging her clitoris: only her panties, his pants and boxer shorts were separating their genitals, and the material of each of those three articles of clothing was very thin. "No more tears from that pretty face," he sighed, pulling his right hand back to wipe a tear off her face. She shifted her chest to the left, when his hand had come back past her arm, and he 'accidentally' caressed her left breast...oh, how delightfully soft it was! Blushing, he said, "Oh, sorry, Camilla."

Not even batting an eye, she said, "That's OK, sir." He wiped a tear off her cheek, then put his arm back around her. "I must look so silly, eighteen years old and crying like a baby," she giggled between sobs. She was rubbing aggressively against his pointy phallus. Paradoxically, she was in emotional agony and sexual ecstasy at the same time. Paradoxically, he was being a kind, avuncular comforter and a lecher at the same time. Gyrating their crotches in rhythm to each other, they were practically having intercourse right there, except for the sheer screen of their clothing.

"It's OK to cry," he moaned and panted, moving his hands in circles around her back. If she had been wearing a bra, he would have found it irresistible to pull on the strap and snap it against her back. She vaguely sensed his desire to do so.

She could guess, with remarkable accuracy, the size of his erect penis. She guessed it at somewhere between six and seven inches (actually, it was just over six and a half when fully erect). It also seemed to be at least one and a half inches in diameter. Camilla now had even more reason to admire her teacher. The moisture her panties were absorbing was accumulating, and her sobbing was now moaning.

A large amount of moisture was absorbed now, not only by her panties, but by his pants, too.

"What the?..." he asked.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I came."

"The kids are gonna be coming soon," he said. "I'd better get to the washroom and clean up. It's a good thing I'm wearing black pants." They got up.

"I'll come with you," she said. "I gotta pee. I should help clean you up; it's my fault you're all wet." After using some tissues to wipe away the foamiest of her orgasm from off his pants, they left the classroom together. As they walked down the hall towards the nearest teacher's washroom, Mr. Grisham held a book in front of his pants.

Making sure no one saw them, they went in the washroom together and locked the door. She pulled her panties off and put them in the sink. They were soaked in her vaginal fluid. She ran some water over them, and they were essentially clean again, pink and pretty. She was happy to let her teacher see them. She left them on the side of the sink, and sat on the toilet.

She pulled her miniskirt up so he could see the urine pouring down from between her wide-open legs, but she didn't want him to see her vulva...yet. Her plan was to have him see her stripping at Luvlee's. She wanted him to see her nakedness in the most theatrical way possible.

"I always have to pee really badly after I come," she whispered, giggling and smiling up at him as he looked down at her and watched the yellow line spray into the water of the toilet bowl. When she finished, she took some perfumed wet napkins from her purse and wiped her vulva clean with them. "I hate it when my vagina smells," she whispered, giggling. "Now we should clean you."

She used other, non-perfumed, wet napkins to clean the wet spot on his pants. He still had a bulging phallus. She got off the toilet, leaving it unflushed. He looked at her pretty yellow urine in the toilet bowl as she, squatting and eye-level with his groin, wiped him clean.

"It's really not fair that you gave me an orgasm, but I didn't give you one," she whispered, panting with lust at the bulge in his pants as she touched it with the wet napkin. "Do you want to put your penis in my mouth? I'll suck it for you," she offered, looking up at him with wide-open eyes, and gently biting the bulge.

"Thank you," she said, getting up, hugging him tightly, and rubbing her belly again his phallus. "You were so sweet to me."

Looking at her panties on the sink, he said, "Sweet in more ways than one."

"Yeah," she giggled, a few tears still rolling down her cheeks in remembrance of her fight with her mother. She picked up her panties, and instead of putting them back on, she stuffed them in his shirt pocket. Pulling on his necktie to bring his face to hers, she whispered, "They're my thank-you gift to you." She pushed all of her lips on his left cheek in a sensuous kiss, held the bulge in his pants and squeezed it, and walked out of the washroom, making sure no one in the hall saw.

After locking the door again, Mr. Grisham pulled the panties out of his shirt pocket with his left hand. He looked at the area that had been caressing her vulva all that day. With his right hand, he unzipped his pants, pulled out his phallus and began to masturbate over the yellow in the toilet bowl. That urine was the sweetest-smelling to him, because it was hers.

As Camilla walked back to class, feeling a soft breeze under her miniskirt, a gentle breath caressing her bare vulva and buttocks, she grinned and said to herself, "He's mine."